


Practical Medicine

by Wishme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:11:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/Wishme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets a cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Medicine

One morning not too long after the fall, Cas shuffles into the kitchen, blanket wrapped around him, tufts of hair peeking out from where the fabric is anchored across his head. Dean looks up from measuring out coffee, his greeting smile faltering when he sees the other man’s appearance. Cas’s eyes are red-rimmed and watery; he doesn’t seem to notice his nose in leaking. “Dean,” he croaks. “I feel terrible.”

 

Dean smiles softly and ushers him out of the kitchen, “I bet you do, buddy.”

 

Soon Cas is tucked into bed, four pillows under his head, two blankets and a quilt piled on top of him. He takes medication dutifully, the taste causing him to look at Dean in abject betrayal and try to scrape his tongue clean. Dean cackles and Cas refuses to take anything more. He narrows his eyes at the mug Dean now offers. “Medicine is vile.”

 

"Yeah, I know, man. But this is good, I promise." Dean places the mug under his nose, "Smell."

 

"Tea?" Cas ventures.

 

"Chamomile with lemon and honey. Will help your throat and help you sleep." Dean pushes the mug into his hands and he is grateful for the warmth centered between his palms.

 

Cas sips the warm liquid and hums contentedly. They sit there, Dean perched awkwardly on the side of the bed, until Cas finishes the mug and lays back, his breath slipping slowly into an even cadence. Dean flips off the light and shuts the door quietly behind him, heading back to the kitchen.

 

Cas sleeps the rest of the afternoon, waking only when Dean brings him soup and water and more tea. He mumbles his thanks around spoonfuls of tomato rice and grabs Dean’s hand when he turns to walk away before falling back on his pillows, as if annoyed with the fact that his eyelids refuse to stay open. He sleeps through the night, if a bit restlessly. Which Dean definitely doesn’t know because he wakes up to check on him every few hours.

 

 

The next day is worse. Cas is a terrible napper and wakes up every twenty minutes demanding softer tissues, ( _These hurt my nose_ ) and refusing to stay in bed ( _I’m_ bored _, Dean_ ) until Dean bundles him out onto the couch where they watch Star Wars as a small mountain of used tissues forms in front of them. Halfway through  _The Empire Strikes Back_  Cas passes out. Dean eases himself off the couch and cleans up their mess of a few half-drunk glasses of water, soup bowls and popsicle wrappers. Tissues get swept into a plastic bag and Dean heads to the kitchen to put the rest of the soup away before settling back into the couch to finish the movie.

 

Dean wakes to a silent room and the familiar blue screen signaling the end of the movie (of course he has the VHS versions—fuck that new CGI bullshit) and a solid weight on his chest. Cas is plastered against his side, head tucked in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean’s arm is around the other man, holding him close, his own head resting against the corona of mussed hair. It’s nicer than he’d like to admit and it’s so tempting to just close his eyes and forget he’d ever woken, but then Cas shifts, yawning and pressing his nose deeper into Dean’s neck. Dean runs his hand down Cas’s arm, “Hey buddy, let’s get you to bed. You’ll get a cramp if you sleep here.”  Grumbling, Cas gathers his blanket around him and curls even more into Dean’s side. The hunter laughs and pushes at his friend’s shoulder, “Seriously, man, you’ll hate me in the morning. C’mon.”  Grudgingly he lets Dean pull him up from the couch, tuck in the edges of the blanket, and drag him back down the hall.

 

Once he’s back in bed, surrounded by his six pillows and under his three blankets and a quilt, he sighs and buries his face. “Dean,” he croaks. The hunter pauses with his hand on the doorknob and Cas continues, “Stay?”

 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean pads over to where Cas has thrown back the covers. Steady blue eyes look back at him and he nods, pulling his shirt over his head. Cas’s eyes never leave his as he unbuttons his jeans and shoves the denim down his legs, toes off his socks, only closing when he slides between the sheets, curving his body around his friend’s. His hand comes to rest on Cas’s chest and Cas slides their palms together, tangling their fingers. Dean’s forehead falls forward onto Cas’s shoulder and Cas presses a dry kiss to the back of their joined hands. “Okay,” Dean breathes into the space behind Cas’s ear. “I’ll stay.”


End file.
